


all the stars

by vesper_rose



Category: Cloud Atlas - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, i think that's enough with the tags for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:26:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_rose/pseuds/vesper_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU of sorts, Frobisher and Sixsmith. Details their last night in Corsica, and the events that follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote in a bit of a spontaneous burst of late-night writing, so I didn't put a ton of thought into it. Turned out to be a bit more angsty than I thought it would be, the ending was also something I didn't quite plan on. It was very much a spontaneously written thing.

Sixsmith moves his arms slowly in the water, a relaxed, thoughtful expression on his face. The water is an inky blue, and the air is chilled by the slight whisper of an evening breeze. The last streaks of an ocher sunset fade down into the horizon like echoes, like small wisps of breath. Frobisher is opposite him, both floating peacefully in the terrace pool. Each is lost in their own thoughts, Frobisher thinking of music and Sixsmith contemplating the more realistic issues in their young lives. It is a late summer evening, one of the last they’ll spend like this for now. Stars begin to dot the sky, a spattering of tiny lights on a dark canvas. Sixsmith swims to the edge of the pool with smooth, sleek motions, resting his arms on the edge. He is still lost in thought, wondering about what the near future holds for him and Frobisher as well. He has plans that are somewhat more than tentative, but they are not completely unchangeable. Sixsmith understands that sometimes things just happen, things out of anyone’s control. He doesn’t quite believe in a higher power, a belief (or lack thereof) that will only be validated in the time to come. He has plans for a flight back to London the next morning, after which he will settle back into his small, ordinary apartment and brace himself for another year of studies.

They had been drifting all summer, spending a good few weeks in Venice, having a jaunt in the vibrant lanes of Paris, making their way to Stockholm and Copenhagen for a time as well. All of this was done on as little money as possible, meaning stays in some of the more rustic offerings of wherever they happened to turn up. This nomadic life seemed a perfect fit for Frobisher; he adapted easily and fluidly with their travels, basking in the experience. Sixsmith was somewhat more reluctant, more hesitant to leave everything behind for a few months and throw caution to the wind. Nevertheless, they both would agree the summer had been an enjoyable one. More so than Frobisher, Sixsmith realized that all good things must come to an end, and this was the end of their carefree summer. It was back to the routines and work of the rest of the year, at least for Sixsmith. Suddenly, he wanted most of all for this never to end, for them to spend the rest of their days traversing the world over and doing things he would never have thought of doing on his own. Frobisher had cajoled him into many an activity like such. They had pooled their money and indulged themselves with three nights (a compromise between Frobisher’s proposed week and Sixsmith’s suggested day trip) at one of the fancier resorts in Corsica as an extravagant end to their journey.

The responsibilities of life suddenly seemed less appealing to Sixsmith, and he could almost see the virtue in extending the activities of their summer into the fall and winter months. But he was pragmatic at heart, and such realities haunted him almost relentlessly. Over the summer he had been able to let some of that go, but as the summer was drawing to an end, his old worries began to resurface. Frobisher could be less than bothered. He was the sort of person who took things very much as they came, not worrying about tomorrow until he happened to wake up and yesterday’s tomorrow had become today.  Sixsmith could not quite understand that attitude towards life, but he had started learning to embrace it. Sometimes life was better without a plan, without everything meticulously thought out beforehand. Yet as the time to return to his studies drew nearer, he was reminded of how they were his responsibility and how they would be vital for his future. Frobisher, as expected, had less of a plan.

The next morning Sixsmith would leave Corsica for rainy London. Frobisher planned to tag along, but he had no definite plans to further his studies in mind.  He was quite possibly thinking of staying a short while in London as it pleased him, and when the mood struck, he’d take off for some distant locale.

Through the multitudes of conversations between them over the course of their relationship, Sixsmith had recognized that Frobisher was in possession of a brilliant mind. Free from the fetters of worry and apprehension for the future, Frobisher had allowed his thoughts unbridled space to grow and morph into grandiose ideas and magnificent pieces of music, among other things. During their travel-laden summer, Frobisher would use his spare moments to work on new compositions. When they landed in places with an accessible piano, Frobisher would play out all that he had composed since the last piano encounter. Sometimes Sixsmith would be the only audience member, and when Frobisher was done playing, Sixsmith would dutifully applaud as Frobisher took an exaggerated bow.

Lanterns adorned the terrace, providing soft but adequate lighting. Light flickered off the small ripples in the water from their subtle motions. “I have a flight tomorrow morning,” Sixsmith said simply. He lifted himself out of the water and took one of the towels lying on the terrace. After drying his hair partially, blond tufts stuck out in arbitrary patterns. Frobisher laughed, a gentle smile playing cheerfully across his face. “Sixsmith. It isn’t that late, now, won’t you spend a little more time, our last night?” he inquired, almost pleadingly. Sixsmith walked around to Frobisher’s side of the pool, sat down on the edge and dangled his feet in the water. In the silence that passed between them, a few thoughts were clear. Sixsmith would return to London in the morning, regardless of how much he had enjoyed the summer and how much he might want to continue that lifestyle. Frobisher was more transient, not caring for the things that worried Sixsmith so much sometimes. It would be their last carefree night together, at least until what they expected would be next summer.

In the morning, Sixsmith awoke slightly frightened. He had dreamed about drowning, that he was sinking in the ocean wrapped in too many clothes that weighed him down and dragged him away from the surface, struggling violently as the crushing water pulled him down into the depths. He could see no cause for this dream, as he had no fear of the water and had not experienced what he would consider a traumatic event lately. The previous evening had ended in Sixsmith going to bed alone, to be joined by Frobisher later. Sixsmith wasn’t mad about it; sometimes their relationship involved unconventional actions that appeared to be trouble yet were actually minor nuances.

London, later that day, Sixsmith had arrived in the city that was to be his home for the next few seasons.  Frobisher had stayed on in Corsica, promising he would arrive in London within the next few days. The routine chaos of the city was strangely reassuring to Sixsmith, almost as a promise that everyone else in the city had their own tedious lives and obligations to attend to as well. He could almost feel that the summer had changed him in some way, and not just by the way his hair was now long enough to get in his eyes (he would absolutely need to get it cut soon) or the slight glow of a suntan he had acquired over the past few months. Still, he was not changed enough to desert his responsibilities in favor of more Frobisher-like life choices.

The weeks wore on, Frobisher arrived a few days later as promised but soon left on what he called a series of artistic callings. He said he’d taken a job, was getting food and lodging free in return for his services. A few weeks after that, he called saying he’d left that job in favor of something else, that all was fine and well but could Sixsmith possibly send him £300? In exchange for the adventures of the summer, Sixsmith figured it was the least he could do and even though he was a bit strapped for cash, he obliged. Frobisher had a habit of calling late at night or early in the mornings when Sixsmith was asleep, leaving occasionally lengthy voicemails in place of calling at more decent hours. Sixsmith’s parents had money to spare, yet he was hesitant to ask for financial help. He hadn’t thought too much about why, but it probably had something to do with proving to them that he was able to support himself, and for that matter, he might have even been trying to prove something to himself.

More time passed, inevitably, and Sixsmith grew somewhat lonely. Frobisher’s calls (or, more accurately, voicemails) grew less frequent and Sixsmith began to feel the monotony of his life increasing by the day. Reality, however unpleasant, was sinking in. He longed for Frobisher’s company, even though Frobisher was most likely off somewhere without Sixsmith’s loneliness weighing much on his mind. It was something Sixsmith had quietly accepted soon after they had met. Sometimes (more often than not, although this was not something Sixsmith liked to admit to himself) Frobisher would have to be left to his own devices even when those plans were very much neglecting Sixsmith. Others would look at such a situation and say Sixsmith should find someone else, that he deserved better, more than what Frobisher was willing to give. But Sixsmith saw a certain charm in Frobisher, something he wouldn’t trade for the world. It was at times like these he quietly wished Frobisher paid slightly more attention to his plight, although Sixsmith knew in his heart it just simply wasn’t to be.

///

It was early in November when Sixsmith got a call, one he expected would be from Frobisher yet it was not. Sixsmith had been idly watching the news when he was interrupted.  A woman with a foreign sounding accent notified him that a man named Robert Frobisher had been injured and that the only piece of contact information they had been able to find was Sixsmith’s phone number. Frobisher was in critical condition and not expected to survive. Sixsmith weighed the benefits of traveling to a foreign country in November when he did not exactly have an abundance of free time. It _was_ Frobisher, although Sixsmith decided there was good chance by the time he got there Frobisher might already be dead. Against his better judgment, Sixsmith looked up the next possible flight to Berlin, decided he could spare the money and time if he really had to, and booked the reservation. It was early evening when he got the call; the flight departed at 9 that night, so Sixsmith threw a few articles of clothing into a small bag and hastened to the airport. He was fairly anxious, holding onto the last traces of hope he had left.

Slightly after midnight in London, the plane touched down in Berlin and a little after that, Sixsmith rushed through the airport in hopes of seeing Frobisher one probable last time. His surroundings blended into a single blurred image as Sixsmith made his way to the hospital Frobisher was being treated at. The front desk clerk was able to direct him to Frobisher’s room, for which Sixsmith was immensely grateful even if he didn’t show it in his haste.

///

It seemed like a mean trick, a spiteful occurrence, revenge for something Sixsmith wasn’t aware he had done, but painful all the same. Upon his arrival at the room indicated to belong to Frobisher, Sixsmith realized that Frobisher had died, probably rather recently, maybe even as Sixsmith had been at the front desk. The nurse in the room taking care of matters noticed Sixsmith’s stricken expression and quickly stammered something the along the lines of an apology. “If you want some time…,” she trailed off and quickly left the room. Sixsmith took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs by the bed, gazing blankly at what was now the dead body of his beloved. Everything in the room exuded a detached air of antiseptic, emotionless existence. Typical of hospitals, Sixsmith thought absentmindedly. At the moment, it was hard to take everything in, and Sixsmith couldn’t properly process the events in his mind. There was nothing he could do. He sat for a few more moments; head in his trembling hands, then laid one last kiss on Frobisher’s lips. They were still rosy, Frobisher’s body was still rather warm; it seemed as if he was in the proverbial state of sleep that death had so often been compared to. A slight afterthought of regret passed Sixsmith’s mind, the question of was it really a good idea, that last kiss, because wouldn’t it be better to remember Frobisher in a more positive way? It was not something Sixsmith wanted to give too much consideration right then. The nurse reentered, Sixsmith exited the room without a word, almost like actors on stage in a play.

He was in a very emotionally fragile state; barely holding back tears. In no state to be catching a flight back to London, he settled on staying at a Berlin hotel that night and returning home in the morning. Once he entered his room, he dropped his small bag of clothes and sank down on the floor next to the bed.

From the small amount of literature he’d previously read regarding death, Sixsmith did know that people handled death differently. For him, Frobisher’s death had caused a complete regression of any sort of rational thought process. Sixsmith spent the rest of the night leaning disconsolately against the bed, thoughts refusing to compute. This was a problem, as Sixsmith lived off of reason and order. Without that, he was even more lost. Sleep eventually overtook him, and he awoke sprawled on the floor next to the bed.

It was then that the more pervasive thoughts began to strike him. A main point, idea, possibility was the one regarding what might have happened if Sixsmith had made a different choice. If he had stayed with Frobisher throughout the autumnal months, traveling some more or whatever they would have happened to end up doing. Sixsmith inevitably began to blame himself for Frobisher’s death. Some more autonomous part of his brain decided that he needed a flight back to London, so Sixsmith mechanically made the arrangements. He still wasn’t thinking clearly. It was as if time had stopped, or slowed down, or contorted itself in some strange and inexplicable way.

What had happened was simple, and in all reality a very Frobisher thing to do. Frobisher had been watching the sunset off a bridge, an innocent activity in itself. But fate had intervened and Frobisher had gotten caught in a severe accident between some vehicles on the bridge. It was as simple as that. Sixsmith was not in the habit of watching sunsets from bridges, so he had the foolish thought that he might have been able to prevent this had he been there.

Back in London, Sixsmith made preparations for the funeral, a simple thing because it was all he could reasonably afford and probably what Frobisher would have wanted. The afternoon of the funeral, after everything had been said and done, Sixsmith was emotionless. He simply could not force himself to get on properly with life. A poem he had taped up on one of his kitchen cabinets caught his eye when he returned home. The last line in particular- “you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars”. This was almost enough to drive him to tears again. Sixsmith could not recall when or why he had taped up the poem, but in that moment it seemed to fit, perfectly, painfully into what was his new harsh reality.

Days passed. November drew to a close, December introduced itself. Sixsmith had managed to get on with his life, although he was a shell of his old self. If anything, he’d grown more nervous and anxious than before. Constantly paranoid of messing up, constantly worried that he would do yet another thing wrong and the consequences would be devastating. But what could be more devastating than what he’d already endured?

One particularly fitful night had him imagining the various scenarios that might have played out had he decided to extend his summer activities with Frobisher. This night ended with an emotionally tormented Sixsmith, something he’d sort of been wishing to avoid. He thought back to that last night in the pool, why he had to worry so damn much about every single thing and that would a bit more time off traveling really be so bad if it meant Frobisher still there? It was enough to drive him absolutely crazy.

Carrying on with his anguished life was unpleasant enough, and Sixsmith began to wonder whether it was all worth it. He thought he’d fallen into a depression of sorts, and he saw no signs of the distress letting up. Sixsmith longed for that short period of emotionless time where he didn’t feel anything at all. It had to be better than his current state.

Sixsmith did not know what to do with himself. Some would have suggested he try to find someone new, to try and move on. He knew, however, that that was not the path for him. Frobisher was incredibly unique, irreplaceable. No one else could or ever would fill the spot Frobisher occupied in Sixsmith’s heart. Maybe letting go would have relieved some of the anguish. Maybe that was really the right choice. Sixsmith couldn’t bring himself to make that decision, the decision to let go. It might mean losing whatever he had left. For some twisted reason, it seemed better to feel pain than to face the possibility of changing or losing the memory of Frobisher, no matter the emotional cost. If Frobisher was back, the jagged edges of Sixsmith’s decreasing sanity would immediately have been smoothed over, the gaping holes filled in, everything would have returned to normal. The impossibility of this seemed to guarantee Sixsmith’s descent into madness.

It was a miracle Sixsmith had been able to keep up with his studies; even if he was running on autopilot and not completely there at all. Christmas came and went, without too much additional pain as Frobisher had never really celebrated it much. It hadn’t been a particularly important holiday for the two of them. If Sixsmith’s propensity towards solitary behavior had served him well in the past, it most certainly wasn’t now. It only served to further distance him from any semblance of support or comfort. All he had were his horrible thoughts, everything trapped inside his head, things from regret to anger to bittersweet sorrow and everything in between. Even remembering the happy times was torturous, as it reminded him of those unforgivable mistakes he’d made and because of which he wouldn’t have any more happy moments.

In late January things seemed to taper off slowly, and by February things had tentatively returned to normal. Sixsmith couldn’t explain it and didn’t try to. He was secretly grateful, even though what seemed to be happening was what he had feared so much only a few weeks ago. It was almost comforting. Life slipped back into the same rhythm it had in the early fall, minus the late night voicemails.  Soon, Sixsmith began to wonder if it was all some sort of surreal dream.

Sixsmith realized one day, looking in the mirror, that his hair had once again grown long enough to cover his eyes. It was this one realization that sent a pang of grief and sorrow coursing through his mind. He took the rest of the day off, sitting and staring blankly at the wall. He hoped the past wasn’t coming back, as he really didn’t want to go back to that. The day after passed without incident, to Sixsmith’s relief.

Spring came. The weather warmed, flowers bloomed. Life for Sixsmith continued, as usual. It was almost strange, but things weren’t too unsettling to cause any major upset in Sixsmith’s emotional stability. He was almost… happy.

May turned to June. Sixsmith was preparing for the summer. What exactly in the summer he was preparing for he was not sure of, as without Frobisher he didn’t really have any plans.

On an early summer Friday afternoon, Sixsmith stepped out into traffic . The cars and people were like stars, forming an unusual constellation that was undeniably human, and undeniably alive. He smiled serenely, almost vacantly. He felt almost delirious.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a song fic, but not quite. At most, it's very vaguely based off a song. The ending kind of surprised me; it just ended up being written that way. I think I might have been subconsciously thinking of some book I read with a similar ending, but I can't think of what specific book it was that had an ending like that. To show just how spontaneously this fic was written, I had originally planned to write a Skyfall fic but this is what I ended up writing.


End file.
